


The Devil's Touch

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:26:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the flesh is unkempt, it makes Crowley’s insides crawl. Wasted potential! Crowley cannot tolerate spoiled meat. </p><p>-or-</p><p>That fic where Crowley opens a beauty salon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I received this beautiful Tumblr anon:
> 
> _Imagine Crowley opening a beauty salon, that basically caters to everything from nails to hairs to advice on clothes. Perhaps Crowley wears a different meatsuit in this business because it would be undignified for a king to be shown catering to others, but he's done with other people's poor aesthetic choice. He's gonna change the Winchester plaid, Sam's long hair, Cas's trench coat and other offensive styles if he has to devote his life time ;)_
> 
> This should have been a light-hearted, silly little fic.
> 
> Instead, I totally found a way to angst it D: Don't trust me with your happy ideas, Tumblr!

It isn’t strange, really. If one stops and thinks about it.

No one will stop and think, of course. So, Crowley chooses a different skin for this task. He does not want his identity to be obvious. Those who do not understand may think the King of Hell is losing his touch. Catering to others in a frivolous manner.

Nothing could be further from the truth!

Crowley is a demon. Demons revel in flesh. Skin is decadent, deceitful. Sexy as all the fires of hell. 

When the flesh is unkempt, it makes Crowley’s insides crawl. Wasted potential! Crowley cannot tolerate spoiled meat.

If the skin is not maintained, what will tempt wayward souls? Money? Power? Ah, but these things are about looks too. Appearance is vital to Hell’s bottom line. 

Crowley chooses a new meat suit for another reason. He enjoys the literary agent from New York. The man may not be supermodel, nor should he be. He is a man of experience. A man of intrigue. He has a strong face that can smile and charm. Tall enough for casual attraction, but not tall enough for intimidation. He is the perfect embodiment of Crowley’s vision.

But he is one flavor of human. Crowley is a demon of infinite tastes. For this mission, he takes a man of a different look. Dark skin, almond eyes. Tall and broad, with an eye for fashion. The man speaks in a voice smooth as aged whiskey. His gentle words are a contrast to the snappy tone of Crowley's preferred vessel.

In this space, a quiet eye is vital. Crowley does not need to outwit here. He just needs to convey truths to his customers in simple terms.

His shop is at the edge of Nowhere and Beyond. A wrong turn down an alley. One step beyond the forest. Just over the horizon. Deep in the thick of city lights.

Crowley trusts his schedule to his best, one who blinks at him from behind a pair of glasses. 

"How?" she asks.

Crowley shrugs. “My ways are my own, love. I protect those who protect my interests.”

Cecily smiles. “You defeated Abaddon.”

"Was there any doubt?" He does not let Cecily respond. "The shop opens tomorrow. I’m afraid your current attire is too…formal, sweetheart. Try for something younger. A bit flirtier, perhaps."

The next morning, Cecily arrives wearing a California blonde. She has a low-cut blouse and the rack to match.

Crowley nods. “Much better,” he assesses. “I’ll be in the back. Send in my first appointment when he arrives.”

*** 

"I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with plaid," Crowley says. "But there is something wrong with plaid in excess. And these layers!" He folds his arms. "If you’re going to cover yourself in a mountain of fabric, make it quality. No plaid, and no t-shirts dug out of a thrift store bin."

Dean looks around the studio. “How’d I get here?” he asks. “And wait…remind me. Who are you, and why do I care?”

Crowley sighs. This is what he gets for starting with the brains of the operation. 

Patience is not a virtue Crowley has to exercise often. But, in this new body, he forces himself to take a breath.

"They call me Cal," Crowley says. "And you are here for your fitting. Surely, you remember?"

"Fitting?" Dean frowns. "For what?"

Crowley returns his confused look, then motions towards the back wall. Dean turns. Hanging from a hook is a perfectly tailored tux.

Dean raises a brow. “I’m not paying for that. Am I paying for that?”

"It’s been settled, Sq… Mr. Winchester," Crowley replies, catching himself. "This is your final fitting. Then, I send you on your merry way. Looking much better, might I add."

"I don’t do tuxes," Dean argues "What’s it for? I don’t…" He looks awfully puzzled, poor Squirrel.

Crowley watches him cover his forearm with a hand. Fingers curl around the Mark. He squeezes it gently.

The shudder that goes through him isn’t lost on the King of Hell. Crowley lifts his vessel's head and pretends not to notice.

"You’ll feel better when you see yourself," Crowley assures him. "Come. Let’s get you dressed."

It’s an easier process than anticipated. Dean’s worry about the Mark seems to still his trademark violence.

He undresses himself to reveal a road map of cuts and bruises. A blue collar body, strong but worn.

Crowley thinks of Dean in his demon days. Even then, the elder Winchester could not see himself as others do. The demon drank himself stupid and fell into bed with the county whores.

Look at him. Lads like Dean Winchester should be rolling in women. Quality ones. The ones who stay.

"I’m not sure about this," Dean says, with uncharacteristic concern. His hands extend towards the suit but hesitate to touch.

Crowley slides next to him, genuinely at a loss. “What is there to be sure about?” he asks. “It’s a tux. A fine one, yes. But it’s clothing, Dean. You wear it, then you change. Don’t you want to look like this for a few hours?”

Dean frowns at the suit. Crowley raises a brow.

He does not want to look like this, Crowley realizes. He wants to be Dean Winchester, complete with ripped jeans and stained shirts. He wants to hide himself in so many layers that no one can make out the shape of his body. And he wants to numb his pretty face with half a dozen shots of Jack. His whole image is a warning sign, a plea to stay away.  

"Put it on," Crowley says. "If you hate it, you can take it right back off."

"Okay," Dean agrees. It takes him another minute to move.

But he does put the suit on. And my, is it exquisite. The pants fall perfectly. The shirt is crisp and fit to his body. And the cuffs of his jacket are the perfect length. Crowley smooths his hair back. Not perfect, but better.

Dean stares at himself in the mirror.

Crowley peers over his shoulder. "Not bad, is it?" he asks.

Dean’s mouth tightens. “I don’t know.”

"Oh, Cecilia," Crowley calls. Cecily enters on cue, wearing her bouncy blonde meat suit.

He does not need to prompt her. Cecily’s eyes devour Dean like a vampire with a fresh neck.  ”It’s perfect,” she says. “Whew! The things I’d do to you…”

"Okay, okay," Dean complains, raising his hands. "Don’t objectify me."

Crowley doesn’t miss the smile Dean flashes at himself in the mirror. 

"Yeah, fine," Dean tells him. "I’ll take it. … Where am I going in this thing again?"

***

"No." Sam is adamant. Worse, he’s downright petrified.

"I’m not saying I’ll cut much," Crowley insists. "Gods, no. I just want to shape your hair to your face. Layers, love. It will be easier to manage. You can sweep it back while you’re fighting monsters and what not."

"It works fine now," Sam argues. He seems about ready to leap out of the styling chair.

Then, a thought hits Sam. He raises his head suspiciously. “Wait, how do you know I fight monsters?”

Crowley shrugs. “Lucky guess. Only a hunter can get away with that hair.”

Sam nods, clearly lost.

"You’ll keep the length," Crowley continues. "I’m just going to touch it up a bit. It’ll bring out your features. Make you look ten years younger, I swear on it."

Sam frowns at the floor. “I… Look, you’re not wrong. But I’ve got reasons for keeping it this way.”

Crowley frowns. “What possible excuse could there be for flat hair?”

"It’s not…" Sam sighs. "Listen. The last time I put any thought into my hair was back when I didn’t have this job. All right?"

"Ah," Crowley hums. "Before you joined the family business."

"I lost someone important to me," Sam says. "She used to like my hair a certain way."

Crowley cocks the head of his new vessel. “Well then, why not return to a more put-together look? What could be a better tribute to this important person?”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m not trying to make my hair a tribute. It’s…” Sam meets Crowley’s eyes. “I was a different person back then. I thought I could be a lawyer, marry my girlfriend, have a family one day. That’s what my look said. Not just the hair. Everything. The way I dressed, the way I acted. It was all about that life.”

Crowley considers this. “You don’t think you deserve to look like that now.”

"It’s not about deserving, it’s that I can’t look like that now." Sam sighs. "I’m not that person. Not as long as I have this job. I tried…with Amelia. She- It’s a long story, but I tried. It didn’t work out. It couldn’t."

Ah, yes. The woman in Sam’s life when he hit that dog.

Inconceivably, Crowley finds himself sympathizing with Moose. It’s why he persists, “Let me take an inch off. If you hate it, your hair will grow back. One month, tops. You never have to cut it again. Deal?”

Sam hesitates. Crowley has the sinking feeling that Baby Winchester is going to say no.

It’s a big surprise when Sam nods and folds his hands in his lap.

Before he can change his mind, Crowley goes to work. Combing. Snipping. Shaping the strands so they fall more naturally around his face. A bit more body, a bit more current. Crowley blows his hair dry, humming to himself all the while.

Then, he spins the seat and shows Sam his reflection. “Well?” he asks.

Sam stares at himself in the mirror. Slowly, he brings a hand up to touch his hair.

"Do you like it?" 

Sam offers a smile, distant and sad. “Yeah,” he replies. “I think I do.”

***

Crowley’s side job has the ability to fix many things. He can offer wardrobe changes and hair cuts. Massages and tanning services.

But there are some things, he simply cannot fix.

Crowley is polishing the hands of the prophet. Aching knuckles crack under his massage. Kevin is looking at the table.

As Crowley rubs lotion into his skin, he notices tears in the prophet’s eyes. Crowley glances at Kevin’s hands. His nails have been chewed down to painful nubs.

“Am I hurting you, Kevin?” he asks.

Kevin shakes his head. “No,” he says, quiet and unsteady. “I just can’t remember the last time I did something for myself.”

Crowley urges Kevin to lift his arm so he can rub the lotion up to his elbow. He winces at the tension he feels under his fingers. Muscles strained to the point of snapping.

“This must feel good then,” he muses.

"No." Crowley raises a brow. Kevin turns away, lips pursed. "I feel guilty."

"Guilty? Whatever for? …Other hand, love." Kevin obediently puts out his left hand. Crowley reaches for the base coat, giving the little bottle a shake.

"I’m not translating," Kevin says. "I should be translating."

Crowley pauses after spreading the clear coat on his thumbnail. “Even God rested, Kevin,” he says.

Kevin shakes his head adamantly. “They used to tell me my work would be done one day. I just had to get through the demon tablet. Then, I had to get through the angel tablet. Find out if there was a way to return the angels to Heaven. 

"I got it, finally. It was never going to be over. I’m a prophet, I’m here to translate. If I’m not translating, I’m a waste.” Kevin’s voice breaks just enough for Crowley to catch.

His glassy eyes focus on the manicure table again. “I’m a waste,” he repeats.

"You are _not_ a waste," Crowley says. His tone is too sharp for this vessel. Kevin’s attention snaps towards him suspiciously.

Crowley does not care. This sentiment may be out of place, but it needs to be said.

"Heaven and Hell can wait, Kevin," Crowley mutters. "You’re human. You deserve to feel like one."

Kevin’s gaze falters. His mouth shakes at a corner.

“I, um… I think I just want them clear,” Kevin says, looking down at his nails.

Crowley nods and returns his focus to the prophet’s hands. “Sure. After this, how about a Swedish while the hands dry?”

"I don’t-"

"On the house, sweetheart," Crowley says. "I insist."

***

"I don’t like it," Castiel decides.

Crowley rolls his eyes on the other side of the screen. Of course not. The angel doesn’t like anything of good taste.

“Why in the world not?” he asks.

"It’s not me," Castiel replies. "This makes me very uncomfortable."

"Oh, come now." Crowley snorts. "It’s not like I’m putting you in a sarong."

"In a what?"

"That trench coat is a filthy mess," Crowley continues, speaking at the screen. "You need something new, darling." 

"I don’t understand why you hate it so much," Castiel says.

Crowley sighs. “It’s a rag. A gimmick.” He bites his tongue before he says anything more. 

Truth is, that damn trench coat is the bane of Crowley's existence. He hates it with every fiber of his being. It’s unbecoming of a warrior of God. And it is beneath one as attractive as Castiel.

Castiel emerges from behind the screen, grumbling. But he has everything on. Black perfectly fitted pants, black button-up shirt, black blazer, hanging divinely.

Crowley nearly slobbers. Finally!

But he holds himself in check. Gives the angel’s hair a little tousle. “There now,” he says. “Perfect.”

Castiel frowns at his own reflection. “I don’t like it,” he says.

Crowley rubs his brow with exasperation. “Why not? You look impeccable!”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “It’s not me,” he replies.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Rubbish,” he argues. “It’s you, darling. A better you!”

"It doesn’t look like Jimmy," Castiel says.

Jimmy? Ah, yes. Crowley recognizes the name. Jimmy Novak. The man whose soul belonged to this body before Castiel made himself at home.

"Why should it?" Crowley wonders. "This man, this…Jimmy. He’s gone, isn’t he? You’re clinging to the past, sweetheart. It’s not healthy."

"It’s not about holding on to the past," Castiel says. "It’s…" He looks at his own reflection again. "Comfort, I suppose. Jimmy gave his life for the mission. I try to honor his sacrifice with my attire. If I cannot feel Jimmy’s soul inside this vessel, he should be present on the outside."

Crowley sighs. Castiel’s sentimentality is a royal pain in the ass. Fine words for a terrible garment.

"If you truly wish to honor the departed, doesn’t he deserve to look like this?" Crowley reasons. "Shine him up like a king, love."

Castiel glances at him. “Why are you doing this, Crowley?”

"You know it’s me," Crowley says. He does not ask the words as a question. It is unfortunate to find that he has been recognized, but it is not a huge surprise.

Castiel nods.

"And, you’ve said nothing until now. Why?"

"I was curious about your end game," Castiel admits. "I’m still curious."

Crowley shrugs. “I want to improve things.” At Castiel’s skepticism, Crowley frowns. “It’s in my nature, believe it or not. I want what I see to please me.”

"And this…pleases you?" Castiel murmurs, picking at his suit. 

Crowley nods. “Yes.” It seems foolish to lie. “But there is something that would please me more.”

"What’s that?"

Crowley’s hand slides under his blazer, tracing the crisp shirt up his back. “Stripping this suit off you, angel. Right now. Piece by piece.”

“I want your other vessel,” Castiel says, without pause.

"Oh." Crowley is disappointed. "I’ve taken a liking to this one. Nice build. Strong. Smart. You must admit, as far as possession goes, he drew a kind assignment."

"Let him go."

Crowley's nose wrinkles. “You’re no fun,” he mutters. But he exits the studio.

Crowley steps past Cecily, who sits up straighter at the reception desk. Her eyes are lit with a knowing mischief. 

"Take care of this, darling," Crowley says, motioning towards himself. He unlocks the door to a side office and steps inside.

On second thought, he pops his head back out. “And cancel my afternoon appointments. I will be…otherwise occupied.” He closes the door.

Seconds later, he emerges, wearing his more familiar skin. 

"Any chance of an invite?" Cecily asks.

"None whatsoever," Crowley replies pleasantly. He sighs and flexes himself in these familiar limbs. As much as he liked that other skin, he did miss this wonderful body.

“Lucky,” Cecily sighs. “He is so hot.”

"Hey now," Crowley murmurs, brow raised, "I’m not so bad myself, you know."

Before Cecily can respond, Crowley closes the studio door. He locks and wards it for good measure.

The King of Hell has all the fun.

Cecily strolls to the front door, turning the “Open” sign to “Closed.” 

Then, she returns to her boss’ office. Inside, Crowley’s abandoned meat is huddled in a corner. His eyes are wide with an unspeakable terror.

"Thanks for your service," Cecily chirps. She hands him a salon coupon. "20% off your next treatment. Come back and see us soon!"

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and Happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi. Or yell at me for angsting fun ideas :p


End file.
